“So I’m looking for several lobster boats sailing a search grid instead of lobstering,” Finley said.
“That’s pretty much it,” Kauders agreed.
Finley thought about it for another minute. “What I really need is aerial reconnaissance.”
“Well, sir, we’ve got two helicopters,” Kauders reminded him. “I can’t speak for the Commander, of course, but if your Director Honeycutt were to make a request, Commander Mello might be favorably disposed.”
“You are a prince among men, Ensign Kauders,” Finley said fervently.
“Yes, sir, that was one of the qualifications to becoming Commander Mello’s aide.”
Finley’s next call was to Howard Honeycutt, and he brought him up to speed on everything he’d learned from Professor Klattenberg and young Ensign Kauders.
“I like it,” Honeycutt said, “but I’m going to have to scramble to get any assets out there today.”
“Call Commander Mello at the Rockland Coast Guard Station,” Finley suggested. “He may be able to help you.”
“I’m on it. Can you get free tonight and give us a hand?” Honeycutt asked.
“I doubt it,” Finley replied. “I’m late now for the second shift and won’t get off until midnight.”
All right, I’ll keep you posted,” Honeycutt promised.
Finley sat in his car, still thinking about the calls with Klattenberg and Ensign Kauders. One more call to make. He called his brother-in-law, the Harbor Master for North Harbor.
“Hey, Frank, what’s up?” Paul Dumas asked.
“Paul, I’ve got an odd question for you,” Finley began. “With the storm coming in, did most of the fishing and lobster boats stay in today?”
Dumas chuckled. “Quite a few of them went out early this morning, but all but a few are back now. The wind and waves have really picked up. Another hour or so and it’s going to be really nasty out there. What’s this about, Frank?”
“You say most of them are back. Anyone still out?”
“Oh, yeah, a few of the usual diehards.”
“Paul, this could be important. Who’s still out?” Finley pressed.
“Hmmm…” Dumas considered. “Well, Old Ben Weaver and his son, working the area from Russ Island to Devil Island, but he’ll be in soon. His boat leaks and he won’t be happy with these waves getting bigger.”
Finley knew Ben Weaver; it wasn’t him. “Who else, Paul? Anybody who surprised you?”
“W-e-e-l-l-l, Jean-Philippe LeBlanc’s out there with his boat, and he’s got his two brothers with him, but Jacob told me they aren’t fishing, they’re doing some sort of bottom mapping with some guy from the Maine Department of Fisheries.”
“Bottom mapping, this close to shore?” Finley asked dubiously. The in-shore area was full of rocks, sandbars, old tires, lost traps, and old diesel engines that had been dropped overboard rather than paying the dump disposal fee.
“Do you know where they are or where they’re going?” he asked.
“Well, you know, I actually went out in my boat to make sure everybody knew about the storm comin’ in. You’d be surprised how many of them dumb bastards turn off their radios. I never caught up with the LeBlancs, but I could see them way up by Opechee Island, still moving north, all sailing in formation like toy soldiers.”
Finley could feel his blood race. “What do you mean, in formation?”
“You know, spread out in a wide line so they can map a wide area at once,” his brother-in-law said.
“Aw, Christ,” Finley cursed.
______________
As the storm got worse, Calvin knew he would have to get home, but he didn’t want to leave Gabrielle. He called his mother at work. “Mom, I’m heading home soon. Gab’s parents might be late getting home tonight. Okay if she comes for dinner?”
His mother thought through what was in the refrigerator, which was very little. “Sure, tell her she’s more than welcome. I’ve got to stop at the store to get something anyway, I’ll just get a little extra. You guys can help me cook dinner.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“I’ll be home just after four, so don’t be late,” his mother told him, then rang off.
Calvin turned to Gabrielle, who was sitting up in her bed, the sheets exposing the curve of her breasts, her hair, mussed and wild, hanging over her shoulders. “Mom says OK for you to come for dinner.” He grinned. “But she won’t be home until four.”
Gabrielle smiled back. It was only 2:30 p.m. “Hmmm,” she said. “What can we do with an hour and a half?”
______________
Once Finley finished his calls, he dashed through the rain to the rear door of the police department. But when Finley reached his desk, Chief Corcoran was waiting for him.
“Finley, the Bangor police have a report for me,” the Chief said coldly. “It will be ready at 4:30 p.m. I want you to pick it up and bring it back here. I’ll be here late, so bring it to me directly. Got that?”
Inwardly, Finley groaned. Another errand, and at the worst possible time. He would have to leave by 3 p.m. in order to make it to Bangor by 4:30 p.m., which mean that there was nothing he could accomplish before he had to go.
“Screw it,” he muttered, then grabbed his raincoat and headed for the door. Outside, he dashed through the rain and the puddles to his service vehicle, one of the new Ford Interceptors. Inside he checked to make sure his car radio worked, that the computer was operating okay and that the AR-15 was clipped in its rack between the front seats. He was just turning away from the carbine when something caught his eye. At the base of the stand that held the AR-15, there were slots that could hold up to four 30-round magazines.
They were empty.
Finley frowned. That happened sometimes if one of the other cops who used this car went to the shooting range with the carbine and forgot to replace the spare magazines. Not often, but it happened. He unlocked the carbine and pulled it across his lap to inspect the magazine slot just forward of the trigger guard.
Also empty.
Now he was pissed. He would happily kick the ass of whoever had this car before. Fuming, he locked the carbine back in the rack, then stomped into the police building and went down to the basement to the armory. Martin Remy had pulled the duty for the day and was sitting at a small desk in the armory room, really nothing more than a large closet. Remy’s face split into a wide grin when he saw him.
“There he is, the man who bested Ralph Harkins with a cheeseburger!” Remy chortled.
“Hey, Marty, how you doin’?” Finley greeted him.
“Every morning I wake up, it’s a good day,” Remy told him, only half kidding. “Hey, I got a joke for you! My grandson showed it to me on the Internet.”
Finley groaned. Remy was notorious for his lousy jokes. “Remy, c’mon, give me a break here.”
“No, no, you gonna love this. See, a cop on a horse said to a little girl on a bike, ‘Did Santa get you that?’ ‘Yes, he did,’ replied the little girl.”
“’Well you should ask him to get you a reflector for it next year!’” the cop tells her and fines her five bucks for not having the proper safety gear on her bike.”
“The little girl looked up at the cop and asked, ‘That’s a fine horse you’ve got there, officer. Did Santa bring you that?’”
“The cop laughed and said, ‘He sure did!’”
“‘Well,” the little girl says, “next year tell Santa that the dick goes under the horse, not on top of it!’”
Finley’s lips twitched. Remy beamed. “See, I told ya!”
“Marty, I need five magazines, 5.56 mm, thirty rounds each. When I got in my car, there was no ammo at all for the carbine.”
Remy clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Burrows had that car yesterday and this morning. He must have hit the rifle range.”
Burrows was one of Chief Corcoran’s fair-haired boys. He was also a bit of a thug. There were half a dozen complaints pending about him using too much force to resol
ve relatively mundane incidents, and one rumor that a sexual assault claim by a teenage girl stopped for a DUI had been withdrawn after Burrows had threatened harm to her younger brother. Finley hadn’t had many dealings with him, in part because Burrows treated him with disdain, trending toward outright contempt.
In other words, Burrows was a prick…and a friend of the Chief of Police.
Finley mentally shrugged. Burrows would wait. He had bigger fish to fry today. “I’ve got to go to Bangor on another errand for the Chief. How about those magazines?”
Remy pursed his lips and nodded. He found the magazines, helped Finley load in the 5.56 mm rounds and handed them over. “Frank, even though this is just another one of the Chief’s errands, you really ought to wear a vest,” he said seriously, referring to a bulletproof vest.
“Yes, Mother,” Finley said, but he put one on, waved to Remy and went back out to the car. He didn’t bother with the GPS; Rte. 15 was pretty much the quickest way to Bangor, and he was already running a little late. But he took time to make one more phone call. Five minutes later he was through downtown North Harbor, such as it was, and on Rte. 15 North.
______________
Chief Corcoran watched Finley leave from his office window. Once he was gone, he took out a burner phone he used sometimes, dialed a number and when the call was answered, said: “He just left. He’ll arrive in Bangor about 5 p.m., then he’ll turn around and come back. It’s Rte. 15 all the way up to Bangor. He won’t be there very long. I put the tracker in the car, so you can follow him no matter where he goes.”
“What weapons does he have?” asked Banderas
Corcoran smiled. “He’s got his service pistol. He’s also got an AR-15 carbine, but what he doesn’t know is that there is no ammo for it.”
Banderas chuckled. “I like that.”
“Don’t underestimate him!” Corcoran snarled.
“We know how to do this, my friend,” Banderas reassured him. “We have done it many times.”
Corcoran didn’t doubt it, but he said nothing.
______________
Danielle Finley arrived home to find Calvin and Gabrielle in the kitchen, making an apple pie.
“It’s really blowing out there!” she exclaimed and shook the rain off her umbrella. “I’ve got chicken, carrots, celery, peas and onions. It’s a good night for chicken soup!”
“Hi, Mom,” Calvin waved casually from across the kitchen. “This pie is just about to go into the oven, but I can’t remember the right temperature.”
“Um, 450 F for ten minutes, then 350 F for thirty-five minutes and we’ll check it to see how it’s doing,” she replied absently, glancing discreetly from Calvin to Gabrielle and back again. Something different. What was it?
“Hi, Gabrielle,” she said warmly, for she truly liked the girl, and knew her son was totally smitten.
“Hi, Mrs. Finley,” Gabrielle replied. “Thanks for having me over to dinner.” Then she flushed crimson and darted a glance towards Calvin, then looked at the floor.
Oh my God! Danielle thought, awareness blooming. They’re sleeping together! They’ve just made love. Today! She leaned back against the kitchen counter, emotions swirling, words leaping to her lips and dying there, unspoken. Then she remembered her own mother’s reaction to catching her and Frank, and what a gift her mother’s simple acceptance had been. She took a deep breath to steady herself, then took off her coat and busied herself filling the kettle for tea.
Then, very casually, she said: “Listen, you two. I know what you mean to each other and I am happy that you have reached this point. I truly am.” She looked at them earnestly. “Intimacy with someone you care for deeply is one of the great gifts the Lord gives us. But, please, tell me that you are using birth control.”
“Mom!” Calvin protested, totally mortified to be having this conversation.
“Yes,” Gabrielle said stoutly, but blushed furiously again. She stepped over and put her arm around Calvin. “I don’t want anything to get in the way of both of us going to college.”
Danielle looked at them tenderly. Two kids, just on the cusp of adulthood. And this tall, thin, brainy young woman, who just might be her daughter-in-law someday. She wanted to do something more, something to show that she blessed them both and wished them nothing but happiness, but she sensed that if she tried to give her son a hug right now, he would run screaming from the house. And if Gabrielle blushed any harder, she might spontaneously burst into flame.
“Good,” she told them. “Someone very dear to me once told me that if you are old enough to be intimate, you are old enough to take precautions. I had to be told. It speaks well of you, Gabrielle, that you knew you had to be responsible for yourself.”
The kettle whistled its readiness at that moment, saving them all from what was sure to be an awkward silence. Danielle smiled at her embarrassed son and his resolute lover. “So, who would like tea and who would like hot chocolate?” she asked brightly.
Chapter 41
Late Wednesday Afternoon – Early Wednesday Night
Without Pity or Regret
There were four of them: Hugo, Diego, Alejandro and Javier.
Hard men. Killers of men. And women…and in two cases, children. Remorseless men. Men without pity or regret.
They had known each other since childhood in the crime-infested streets of Los Guandules, one of the poorest neighborhoods of Santo Domingo. Each had seen brothers or fathers killed by rival gangs, each had been cold and hungry and afraid for his life. Each had struggled and fought and killed and killed again in order to stay alive. Each had robbed, beaten and raped. And each had come to the dark realization that if God was not dead, He had at least turned his beneficent gaze away from them.
So be it.
They had no hope of ever growing old. They were to die by violence, for that is the fate of such men. But they could delay that reckoning by ruthlessly killing any and all who might harm them. This they were willing to do, for while none of them feared death, each of them secretly harbored a terror of what might come after.
Now they had another mission: kill a man and his wife and their two sons. They did not question the necessity of this, and certainly not the morality of it. It was their job, and they were professionals. Each carried an AK-47 with a 3X scope and extended magazine, plus a pistol, usually loaded with .45 caliber ammo. They methodically inspected and readied their weapons. When they were ready, they placed them neatly on the table.
Then they sat down to wait for the phone call.
Chapter 42
Wednesday, in the Ocean off North Harbor
The three drug parcels each took a different path into the cluster of islands buffering North Harbor from the sea. The first swept along with the Eastern Maine Coastal Current and entered Jericho Bay. It drifted southwest, slipping through the shallows between Swans Island and Sunshine Point, only to run smack into a rock outcropping on the west side of Shabby Island. It bumped along the bottom, being pushed by the waves higher and higher up the rock incline, until finally one big wave picked it up and hurled it over the ledge into a tidal pool formed by four chunks of rock tall enough to break the surface.
And there it sat, in four feet of water, rocking back and forth as waves crested over the pool, only to settle back down again when they passed.
The second package also passed through Jericho Bay, but it missed Shabby Island by half a mile, then got pulled almost due west by the EMCC, threaded the needle between Phoebe Island and Enchanted Island, then swung south with the current and wedged firmly in the cleft of Gunning Rock, twenty feet beneath the surface of the ocean.
The third package slid along the eastern side of Swans Island and west of Frenchboro Island, then dutifully followed the current southwest again towards Isle Au Haut, unperturbed by the storm now raging twenty feet above it.
It would ground on an island or a rock, or it would not. If it did not, then it would collide with the Western Maine Coastal Current, which woul
d push the package out past Georges Bank and into the open Atlantic Ocean. There it would be caught by other currents and move in a vast circle around the ocean until, years later, its wrapping rotted enough to allow water into the dry heroin within, it would sink.
But for the moment, its fate was undecided.
______________
On board the Celeste, Jean-Philippe LeBlanc glanced sourly at the fading light and the rising waves. The ship’s wind detector showed gusts up to forty miles per hour. In this weather he was an hour’s hard sailing back to North Harbor, and the storm was getting worse by the minute.
So far, they had not caught any sign of the packages.
LeBlanc shook his head and turned to the others in the small cockpit. “We’re shutting down. Radio the Samantha and Rosie’s Pride and tell them to turn back for port.”
“But we need to find the parcels!” Banderas growled. “They’re coming through today or tomorrow.”
“We can’t find them if we get swamped by these waves!” LeBlanc snapped back. “I’m in charge and I’m telling you it ain’t safe. We’re going back to port. We’ll go out first thing in the morning.” He spun the wheel to bring the boat around, taking them southwest to the harbor’s entrance.
“Listen, LeBlanc,” Banderas began, his voice filled with menace.
“I’ve been sailing these waters for close to thirty years,” LeBlanc said, cutting him off. “I know the islands, the rocks, the ledges and the currents. Most of the lobstermen know what I know. And you know what? We lose maybe three boats a year, all for the same fuckin’ stupid reason: the captain stayed out just a little too late and the storm got him. Experienced captains who should have known better, but they screw up. One bad judgement, that’s all, just one bad judgement.”
LeBlanc looked at Banderas, who stared back defiantly. “So you’re thinking maybe you should pull out that fancy gun of yours and take over the boat. Right? Or do something really fucking brilliant and shoot me. But before you do something you’ll regret in about one flat minute, let me ask you a question: How many hours have you sailed these waters? At night, in a storm? How many minutes would it take for you to run up on a rock or an island and then capsize.” He laughed shortly. “You even know how to swim?”
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